The Echo of a Broken Set

The gym lights buzzed—that weird hum that settles in after everyone leaves. Sneakers stopped squeaking on the polished floor, volleyballs stopped thudding, but the air still hung thick, heavy with sweat. Atsumu Miya stood frozen by the net, jersey sticking to his back, heart hammering. His teammates had trickled out, their laughter fading down the hall, leaving him alone with Suna Rintarou, who was taking his sweet time re-lacing his shoes on the bench.

Suna moved slow, deliberate. Face a mask of cool indifference, eyes half-lidded, focused on his shoes. He hadn't said a word to Atsumu since practice ended, and the silence pressed down like a weight on his chest.

“Oi, Suna.”

Suna didn't look up. “Mm?”

Atsumu's throat went dry. He'd rehearsed this a hundred times, but now the words were ash. He stepped forward, knees weak. “Can I… talk to you? For a sec?”

Suna finished tying one shoe, then the other, and finally lifted his head. Those dark eyes were flat, unreadable—a blank wall. “Sure. About what?”

“Just…” Atsumu's hands were shaking. He shoved them in his pockets. The gym felt too big, too empty, shadows stretching long from the bleachers. “We've been on this team together for a while, right? And I know we're friends, but I… I feel like…”

Heat climbed his neck, suffusing his cheeks. He hated it. He was Atsumu Miya, best setter in the prefecture, loud, arrogant, confident. He didn't stutter. He didn't blush.

But this wasn't volleyball.

Suna stood up, lean frame unfolding with lazy grace. Taller than Atsumu, and in the dim light his sharp features looked almost predatory. “You feel like… what?”

“I like you,” Atsumu blurted, the words ripping out before his courage failed. “Not just as a teammate or a friend. I like you the way… other people don't look at each other. I think about you all the time. You're the first person I wanna see in the morning and the last one I think about at night. I know it's weird, and I know you probably don't feel the same, but I had to say it. I couldn't keep it in anymore.”

The confession hung there, fragile and raw.

Suna's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. He stared at Atsumu for a long, breathless moment, then let out a low, soft laugh. Not mocking, exactly. Hollow. Empty.

“You're joking, right?”

Atsumu's heart plummeted. “What? No, I'm not—”

“You're not.” Suna's voice went flat, drained. He looked away, gaze fixed on the gym doors. “Look, Atsumu. I… don't feel that way about you. I don't like you, not like that.”

Clean cut. Surgical. Atsumu felt a physical ache bloom in his chest. He'd expected rejection—maybe a polite 'let's just be friends' or awkward silence. Not this icy finality.

“But… we're so close,” Atsumu whispered, the confident setter gone, replaced by a desperate boy. “We spend every day together. Same jokes. You always know what I'm thinking when I'm about to set—”

“That's called being teammates,” Suna interrupted, voice hardening. “It doesn't mean anything. I'm not interested in you, Miya. I never have been.”

Hot anger flared in Atsumu's chest—a defense mechanism. He couldn't just accept cold defeat. He had to land a blow, make Suna feel even a fraction of the hurt drowning him. His eyes landed on Suna's face, and he remembered. The girl's name from last year. A rumor. A ghost.

“Is this 'cause of Heather?” Atsumu spat, the name a venomous dart. “Are you still hung up on your ex-girlfriend? 'Cause you never even talk about her, so maybe you're just scared to move on, scared to actually feel something for someone who's actually here and wantin' you—”

The slap came so fast Atsumu didn't see it. Echoed like a gunshot in the empty gym. Force snapped his head to the side, cheek erupting in sharp, stinging fire. The world spun, copper on his tongue. He stumbled back, hand flying to his burning face, staring at Suna with wide, shocked eyes.

Suna's mask was gone. Face twisted—pure, raw rage. Eyes no longer flat, but lit with dark, predatory fire. Breathing ragged, a low growl in his throat.

“Don't,” he hissed, voice a terrifying whisper. “Don't you ever fucking say her name.”

Before Atsumu could run, Suna grabbed him by the collar of his jersey, yanked him forward, then slammed him backward. The air drove from Atsumu's lungs as his back hit the cool metal of the gym wall. Shock of pain through his spine.

Then Suna's hands were on his throat.

Thumbs pressed hard against his windpipe, cutting off air. Panic, immediate and primal, flooded Atsumu's system. He clawed at Suna's wrists, feet scrabbling for purchase on the polished floor. Vision started to tunnel, stars exploding at the edges.

“Please,” Atsumu choked, a gurgled sound. His fingers were too weak—setter's grip useless against Suna's iron hold. “Suna… please… I can't… breathe…”

Suna's face was inches from his own. Atsumu saw nothing of the friend he knew. Only a stranger, a monster wearing Rintarou's face. Eyes wild, teeth bared, vein bulging on his forehead.

“You don't get to talk about her,” Suna snarled, voice a low, venomous rasp. “You don't know anything. You never knew anything. You're just a loud, stupid, selfish brat who thinks the whole world revolves around you and your perfect sets.”

Atsumu's vision was fading to black. Pressure in his chest unbearable. Dying. He was going to die in the Inarizaki gymnasium, choked to death by the boy he loved.

“Suna… please… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…” Barely a whisper, a desperate plea. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood from his cut lip.

Something in Suna's eyes changed. A flicker of recognition, of horror. As if seeing Atsumu for the first time. As if realizing what he was doing. His grip loosened, fractionally, and Atsumu sucked in a ragged, painful gulp of air.

A moment later, Suna let go. Staggered back as if burned, hands dropping to his sides. Atsumu collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat, coughing and gagging, whole body wracked with sobs. He couldn't look up. Couldn't face the monster.

He heard Suna's footsteps, retreating across the gym floor. A door slammed.

Atsumu stayed on his knees, tears soaking into the polished wood. Throat throbbed, cheek burned, chest ached with a pain deeper than any bruise. Rejected, humiliated, assaulted by the person he trusted most.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his feet. Stumbled, legs shaking, and made his way out of the gym into the adjacent locker room. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting sickly glow on rows of lockers. He made it to the bench in front of his own locker before his legs gave out.

He crumpled to the floor, back against cold metal, and let the tears come. Buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable sobs. Felt dirty, used, broken. The ghost of Suna's hands still on his throat—a phantom weight he couldn't shake.

He didn't know how long he sat there, lost in the abyss. The world narrowed to cold floor, harsh light, the sound of his own ragged breathing.

The locker room door creaked open.

“Tsumu? You still in here? We're s'posed to meet for dinner.”

Osamu. His twin. His other half. The voice that brought him back from the edge.

Atsumu didn't answer. Couldn't. Voice gone, strangled somewhere in his broken throat.

Osamu rounded the corner of the lockers and stopped dead. Color drained from his face. He looked at his brother, but didn't see Atsumu the arrogant setter. He saw a scared little boy, curled into a ball, tear-streaked, face stained with blood and salt. Red mark blooming on Atsumu's cheek, angry purple bruises starting to form on his neck.

“Tsumu? What… what happened?”

It was the same look. The look Atsumu used to wear when they were kids, after their mother had been in a "mood." The look of a child who had been hit and was too ashamed to tell anyone. Nausea rolled through Osamu's gut.

Atsumu looked up, eyes empty, lips trembling. “Samu… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…”

“Sorry for what?” Osamu dropped to his knees in front of his brother, hands hovering, afraid to touch. “Who did this to you? Tell me.”

Atsumu shook his head, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. “I just… I told him how I felt… and he got so mad… and I said somethin' stupid… I made him mad…”

Osamu's blood ran cold. A terrible, horrible understanding dawned. He forced himself to look at the marks again. The pattern on the neck. The shape of fingers.

“Suna,” Osamu said. It wasn't a question.

Atsumu flinched as if struck again.

Rage hit Osamu—cold, quiet, terrifying. Not his brother's hot impulsive anger. Something that settled in his bones. He stood up slowly, fists clenching at his sides.

“Stay here,” he said, voice flat and dangerous. “Don't move.”

“Samu, no—please, don't—”

But Osamu was already gone, footsteps echoing down the hall toward the gym, toward the exit where the team sometimes gathered.

He found them. The rest of the team loitering near the entrance, bags slung over shoulders, laughing about something. Suna among them, back to Osamu, posture relaxed, as if he hadn't just tried to murder someone's brother.

Osamu didn't break his stride. Walked right up to Suna, grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around.

“What the hell did you do to my brother?”

Suna's mask of indifference slipped back into place, but a flicker of something—fear? guilt?—in his eyes before it vanished. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Osamu shoved him, hard. Suna stumbled back, eyes widening.

“Don't you fucking lie to me!” Osamu roared, voice cracking. “I just saw him! He's in the locker room, crying! He has your handprint on his throat! So I'm gonna ask you one more time, Suna Rintarou: What. The hell. Did you do?”

The team went silent. Heads turned. Stiff, uncomfortable tension settled over the group.

Suna's jaw tightened. “It's not what you think.”

“Then explain it to me,” Osamu hissed, taking a step closer. “Explain why my brother looks like he was attacked. Explain why he has a red mark on his face and bruises on his neck. Explain why he's sitting on the floor of the locker room, shaking and crying like he's been shattered.”

The silence stretched. Suna's eyes darted around the circle of teammates, looking for an ally. No one spoke. No one moved.

“He said something,” Suna finally muttered, voice low. “He brought up something he shouldn't have.”

“So you hit him?” Osamu's voice was barely a whisper now, trembling with rage. “You choked him? Over words?”

Suna's face contorted for a split second, the mask cracking. “You don't know what it's like. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“No, I don't,” Osamu said, voice cold as ice. “And I don't care. There is nothing—nothing—you could have said to him that justifies this. My brother came to you with his heart in his hands, and you crushed it, and then you tried to fucking kill him.”

The team erupted. Whispers turned into murmurs of disgust. Ginjima shook his head, expression dark. The captain, Kita, stepped forward, face unreadable but eyes hard.

“Is this true, Suna?” Kita asked, voice quiet but carrying weight.

Suna opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

“Look at you,” Osamu spat, voice dripping with contempt. “You can't even deny it. You're a monster. You were supposed to be our friend. You were supposed to be his friend. But you're just a coward who hurts people when they get too close.”

Suna's face went pale. Hands trembling at his sides. The facade was gone, leaving only a scared, broken boy. Osamu felt no pity. Pity was for people who deserved it.

“Get out of my sight,” Osamu said, voice dropping to a whisper. “You're dead to me, Suna. We're done. The team is done. Everything is done. If I ever see you anywhere near my brother again, I won't be as forgiving as he is.”

He turned his back and walked toward the locker room.

“Osamu—wait,” Suna called out, voice cracking. “I didn't mean—I don't know what came over me—”

Osamu stopped but didn't turn around. “You know exactly what came over you. You've always known. And you chose to let it out. On him. The one person who trusted you the most.”

He walked into the locker room.

Atsumu was still on the floor, but he had stopped crying. Staring at his hands, face blank, like his soul had checked out and left an empty shell.

Osamu knelt beside him. Didn't say anything. Just put his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him close. Atsumu didn't resist. Slumped against Osamu, head on his shoulder, body limp.

“I'll never let anyone hurt you again,” Osamu whispered into his brother's hair. “I promise. I'll be the brother you should have had all along. I'll protect you. Always.”

Outside, the team watched as Suna walked away alone, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. No one called after him. No one said goodbye.

Alone now, truly alone. Guilt already settling in, a lead weight in his chest, cold emptiness where his friends used to be. He had lost Atsumu, lost Osamu, lost the team. Destroyed everything, and no one to blame but himself.

He thought of her, too. Heather. The ghost that haunted him, the memory that drove him mad. He thought of how Atsumu's bright, trusting eyes had looked up at him, full of love, and how he had crushed that light with his own hands.

He couldn't undo it. The damage was done, and it would fester like an infected wound.

The gym lights clicked off, plunging the court into darkness. Somewhere in the locker room, Atsumu Miya wept on his brother's shoulder. And Suna Rintarou stayed in the shadows, alone, watching the love he'd just destroyed slip through his fingers like sand, with nothing left to hold on to.